Chapter 25 #5
Woodrow stalked back to the island, his feet silent on the wooden floor, his gray sweatpants low on his hips, showing off the body made slender by his illness.
He plucked a daisy from the vase and brought it to his nose, taking in the scent.
He lowered into a seat, his eyes downcast, hiding the pain he felt behind his long lashes.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Answer my fucking question, Woodrow!” I fumed.
Pretty silver flecks twinkled, focusing on the flower in his hand. “I would have told you. . . and treatment won't fail.”
“I'm glad you're optimistic.” I wasn't feeling that way.
“It won't fail because I'm not taking treatment.”
My mouth moved rapidly to question his decision, but no sound came out. I tried to walk toward him, my fists balled ready to knock some sense into him, but my knees went from beneath me—a higher power saving him from my wrath.
I sunk to the floor, and I couldn’t get back up. The weight of my devastation was too heavy. I held my stomach, crouched over myself, and I sobbed.
A Woodrow-shaped shadow wrapped around me, and I felt a little comfort from it. A second later, his hands clutched at my biceps and guided me into a sitting position in his lap. I used his chest for comfort but felt the opposite as each wheeze of his lungs was amplified in my ears.
I turned my head, not wanting to hear his painful struggle.
The tattoos on his chest called to me, and for the first time, I was able to understand the words. Each tattoo was a message . . .to me. Words engraved into his skin by sharp objects that he shouldn't have had access to within prison.
My fingers trailed the letters, taking in his written apologies to me. And the beautiful words made more tears race down my already soaked cheeks.
Woodrow lifted my chin with two fingers, raising my face to see the pink daisy tucked behind his ear as he tucked my hair behind mine.
“I can't live without you.”
“You can, my strong, brave girl. You have for ten years.”
“I can't do it again. I won’t do it again. You have to take the treatment. Do it for me. Please, do it for me.”
I knocked the flower to the floor as I clasped his face.
“Why haven't you done it already?”
“I put a lot of money into this house. Into giving you a home. A future. I didn’t want to waste any of it—"
“My future was meant to be with you. Us. Together.”
“Ah, Moonlight, fate had other plans.” His hands enveloped mine.
I shook my head, refusing to allow fate to win.
“There's money on the land, you said—"
“Not enough for what I need.”
“We can sell some land. Sell the house. Get a mortgage.” His sad eyes disagreed with my ramblings. “We can try. We can try. . . something. Anything. I want you to live.”
A smile elevated his pout, making dimples pop. He was smiling because it wasn't so long ago, I'd said the opposite. . . but it was never true.
I was just mad at him.
And time with my captors had me believing their lies, and they told a-fucking-lot of them. They'd told me I'd been sent to them for training, that one day my true master would come for me, and he wouldn't go easy on me. When Hell showed up, that was all too easy to believe.
“I need you to live.”
“I want to live, but the choice isn't mine.”
“We can sell the house; we can live somewhere smaller.”
“Moonlight.” He smiled. “My special Moonlight.
We're not selling your home.” His hands moved from his face to mine, his gentle fingers wiping away my tears and calming the tremble of my lip.
“I spent months getting this place perfect.
. . for you. I put in time and almost all of my energy, and some days, I wasn't even sure I'd make it through the day, never mind live long enough to see you here.” He licked the dryness from his lips.
“Treatment is pointless. They offered it to me when I was first diagnosed.”
“When was that?”
“I had issues in prison, but nothing was really done until three weeks before I got out of the institute. That was when I stopped eating so much, feeling full quickly. I was sick a lot. My throat felt more constricted. I was coughing up blood.” He licked his lips again, and I noticed this to be a pattern.
“I was sent for a medical exam, and they did some tests.
Starting with my throat. I don't know if my father was lying all those years ago.
. . but the doctor told me my tumor had mutated.
It was cancer and slow growing, but I'd had it for years.
Some other tests were run and they confirmed I had metastatic cancer. "
“What does that mean? Is metastatic worse?”
“It's incurable. It means cancer cells have broken away from the primary cancer, spreading to other parts of the body.”
I stopped breathing, waiting for him to say more. My eyes scanned his body, as if by magic, I'd see beneath his skin and know exactly where he hurt.
“It's in my lungs.”
My world stopped; my suspicions confirmed. My mother was killed by lung cancer after it spread from her breast. It couldn't take Woodrow, too.
“Liver, stomach, and lymph nodes. There's no cure, Jolie.
The doctors told me without treatment, I'd be looking at six months.
With, I'd only get nine. To me, it wasn't worth it. All the pain of chemotherapy for three months where I couldn't even enjoy my remaining days. I wanted to enjoy them; I prayed to all that was holy I’d get you back to spend them with you.”
“This can’t be happening.”
“I’m sorry for being selfish. For needing you now and bringing you in only to hurt you in time,” he needlessly apologized.
"How many months has it been?"
“Seven.” He smiled an ingenuine smile. “I'm defying odds.”
“Are you scared?” I had to ask, because I was fucking terrified.
He swallowed, and being so close, I could see how much it hurt him. His mannerisms that space usually disguised, couldn't be hidden from me while I sat in his lap. His lips tightening and his eyes lowering to a slight squint were much clearer to see.
“Terrified.” He turned us, positioning his back against the cupboard doors. He picked up the pill bottle and shook it, giving himself a distraction. He clutched the flower from the floor, conducting it to his nose.
And from those actions, I knew he wanted to escape. But he chose to stay, cherishing these minutes, no matter how painful they were, because he was spending them with me.
“For a while, Hell wanted to take you with us.” A tear rolled down his cheeks. “But I told him good things come to those who wait. We’ll wait for you.”
“The diary? You told him in a diary?” You still keep one.”
“Until my last day. But it’s not like it used to be.” He swallowed again. Closing his eyes with the pain that pushed out another tear.
I moved between his legs, turning to wipe away his sadness.
“Let him do it. Let him take me with you,” I begged. “Please. . .”
“No. I don't want to die knowing it was my hands that killed you. Everything else they've done hurts enough. He's not going to take you with us.”
“But—”
“No buts, Jolie. . . this is how it is. Besides, there’s no guarantee that we'll be going to the same place. I'm not sure I'll get into heaven.”
“You will. You'll be with our baby. With Daizee. And Nessie.”
A tear rolled, one from each eye, one for each of my special little angels.
“Waiting for you.”
I couldn't talk to tell him he wouldn't be waiting long. I huddled into his lap, my fingers jabbing into his skin and his arms banding around me. And I stayed there until morning faded away, until the clouds darkened with the arrival of evening.
Getting restless beneath me, he reached up for the drink, his knuckles almost hitting the glass over and spilling the contents onto my head.
I stretched for it, placing it at his lips.
I winced, feeling like the milk would have soured by now, but he didn't complain, drinking it until he drained the glass.
He gave me a squeeze, and asked, “When I'm gone, will you take care of Bushy?” He rolled his eyes, in disapproval of the name I'd chosen.
“He'll be in good hands.” I smiled, delivering the devious lie. I let Woodrow believe those hands would be mine, but they wouldn't. I'd reach out to someone. A sanctuary, or something.
“Can we have the same for dinner today?”
“As yesterday?”
I stood, pulling him to his feet. He opened the pills in his hand, and popped two into his mouth. His perfect teeth crunched down on them because that was the only way he'd be able to swallow them. He washed them down with some water at the sink.
He stayed with me as I cooked, helping me to drop in herbs and ingredients, giving the dish our own special touch, and giving me the memories I'd need to survive those few lonely and heartbreaking hours without him, while I hunted for the easiest way to end my own life and the courage to see it through.
And after a few spoonfuls of dinner, when we were in the middle of a conversation, he disappeared.